


For Once, It Starts With Breakfast

by Wildgoosery



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Reader-Insert, The latest salvo in the Readerfic Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 08:44:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11643000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildgoosery/pseuds/Wildgoosery
Summary: You're not the type to flirt with customers, or to cut out early from work, or to hook up with some hot jerk of an elf who's breezed through town on shady business.And yet!Here you are.





	For Once, It Starts With Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set sometime between the disaster in Glamor Springs and the Rockseeker job. 
> 
> It was written because I was directly fucking dared to write it, and I hope the person who did said daring is HAPPY. 
> 
> I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY, FRIEND. YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF.

You notice him the minute he walks in from the street. You've been working the counter at this diner for years, poured uncountable cups of the only decent coffee in this very small town, but you've never seen this guy before. Not too many elves pass through your corner of Faerun, just in general, never mind one who can pull off the combo of a canary yellow sundress, knee-high red boots, and a comically enormous wizard hat.

He grins at you from under the brim, wide and toothy and insincere enough that even you can tell. "Too late for breakfast?"

"No such thing," you say. "Are you waiting for someone, or-?"

"I am not," he says. He meets your eyes for a calculating moment that pulls something taut in your chest. Then he plunks his bulging satchel on a stool at the counter, and slides himself onto the next one over. "Two eggs, over easy. Wheat toast, buttered. You make your own sausage here...?"

"Of course," you say, still watching his face. You're long past needing to write down orders, and you've just noticed the freckles spilled across his nose and cheeks.

"A side of sausage, then," he says, "and make sure the potatoes are crispy. Life's too fucking short for a soggy hash brown."

"Coffee?"

He drums his fingers on the worn countertop. "There an inn around here?"

"It's about an hour on foot." 

A grimace. "Woof. Yeah, better hit me with that shit."

You pass his order on to the cook, grab him a rollup and a mug and reach for the freshest pot of coffee on hand. You pour him a steaming cup and ask, "In town on business?"

He dumps a steady stream of sugar into his mug. "That's why I'm IN town, sure."

"Didn't work out?"

He moves on to the cream. This coffee's going to be a desert by the time he's finished. "I'm ordering eggs before a midnight march down the highway, my dude, how do you THINK it went?"

You're deep in the lull between the dinner crowd and the late-night drunks, and everyone else in your section already has their food. You make the rounds with the coffee, refill a couple of mugs and bring someone their check, all the while keeping one eye on the elf in the yellow dress. He's hooked the heels of his boots over a high rung on his stool, and his skirt has slid halfway up his thighs. And you can see, now, how far the neckline of the dress plunges in the back, his shoulder blades and the peaks of his spine sharp under coppery skin. You nearly drop the carafe when he takes off his hat to reveal a spiky mess of dark hair, which looks like he chopped off a braid with a knife but in a way that somehow WORKS for him. He runs a hand back through it, bangles clinking on his wrist, and yeah. Yes. Maybe it works a little too well.

His order's in the window for pickup when you slide behind the counter again. He glances up as you set the hot plate down in front of him, and you flash the most charming smile you can manage. "So what kind of business are you in?"

You think you catch him swallowing whatever his first reply might have been. Then he pours ketchup all over his eggs and says, "Whatever pays the bills, my man."

"Big secret, huh?"

He shoves a forkful of potatoes into his mouth and chews it while he sizes you up. "I had a show for a while," he says, like the words are a bomb that might go off. "Traveled a lot. Never came through here, but close."

You haven't a clue why he's being so cagey about this. You're starting to get the feeling you're supposed to know who he is, but you don't really get out much and you are PRETTY SURE you'd remember if you'd seen this guy before. He's a little weird-looking in the way that actors often are, his eyes and mouth and nose all too big for his face, his ears flared wide and expressive. They swivel toward you now as you ask, "What kind of a show?"

"Ancient history," he says. He picks the next sausage link up between two fingers, raises it to his lips, and bites it cleanly in half. His eyes flick up at you, catching you staring. "These days it's pretty much catch-as-catch-can. Mercenary stuff." He chews; swallows. "You can pick up adventuring gigs in most towns, just not around this dump, apparently."

"Come on, there's always a job for a wizards," you say. "I'm from around here, you know, I could talk to-"

"How about you stick to pouring coffee and let me mind my own shit." He bites off that final "t" with a sharp warning smile, a click of white teeth.

You can feel your face burning as you snatch a rag from the sink and wipe down the counter at random. "Hey, none of my business," you say to the front of his dress. "So long as you can pay your tab."

A snort of laughter. "I'm too fucking tired to dine and dash, calm down." He pushes what's left of the potatoes around with his fork, then sighs and says, "Listen, it's complicated, all right?" 

"Commerce?"

"Magic, asshole."

Your lips twitch. "You have a magic asshole?"

He actually laughs for real at that, covering his mouth with one hand. "That's fucking terrible."

God, your life would be so much easier if you didn't have a weakness for hot and mean. "I'm just making friendly conversation," you say.

He smirks at you around a forkful of eggs. "Just some friendly ass talk."

You tuck the rag into your apron pocket and flash a sideways smile. "What can I say? It's on my mind."

"Uh-huh." 

"Because your ass is-"

"Yeah, no, I put those pieces together." He leans back on the stool, his palms flat on the counter to either side of his plate. "You always hit on your customers, my dude, or do you save this shit up for special occasions?"

You smooth the front of your starched white shirt. "I...wouldn't mind if this occasion turned out to be special."

He looks at you for a considering beat. Then, "Hey listen, it's been a long fucking day and daddy's running out of gas, so how's about we skip all this..." He waves the fork in vague dismissal. "And just cut to the chase, hmm? You wanna fuck me, right?"

He says this much, MUCH too loudly. You can feel the eyes of a few of your regulars on you as you mutter, "I mean...look, I won't pretend that-"

"Hey bucko, you're cute and all but I'm tired as hell, don't waste my time."

The blushing is bad enough, now, that it prickles a little at your cheeks. "I'd like to," you say, low and quiet and dead certain that your boss can somehow hear this from the kitchen.

He swirls the dregs of his coffee. You've leaned in to keep from being overheard, and now belatedly notice how close his face is to yours, both of you under the brim of his hat. He says, "You live near here?"

"Sure." You lick your lips. "Yeah, I do, but my shift isn't over for-"

"Hey funny that, turns out there's been a change in schedule, my dude. Your shift wraps up as soon as I'm done with this," he says, and raises the mug for emphasis.

"All right," you say, and it feels like you're listening to someone else agree to this. You don't cut out early from work. You don't hook up with random guys who come breezing through your town. "Give me ten minutes."

You don't even bother to hand him the check. You know you'd just end up paying it anyway, and it's less embarrassing to dig a few coins out of your pocket and drop them in the till and pretend it's because you're feeling generous.

You tap your timestone against the master clock to mark the end of your shift, give the night manager some excuse which you immediately forget, hang your apron in your locker, and slip out the back door. He's waiting for you with the satchel slung over his shoulder, his back and the heel of one red boot against the wall of the diner. His face is shadowed but his eyes catch a glint of street lamps; when he grins at you, so do his teeth. 

Your apartment is tiny, half of the already-small second floor of a house a few blocks from the diner. You're nervous enough that your fingers won't cooperate, and he comes up behind you while you fumble with your keys, runs his palms along your hips, tugs out the tails of your shirt and then slips his hands up under it, the first electric moment of his skin touching yours. His hot breath stirs the hairs on the back of your neck, and you feel the brush of what must be his lips, chased by the slick wet warmth of his tongue. 

You are specifically conscious of where you are, standing on an open-air landing surrounded by the lit windows of your neighbors, a streak of saliva drying on your nape. When the door finally opens, you don't step so much as escape through it. Not from him -- him you want, more badly with every moment -- but from the need for discretion.

Then he's standing in your hallway next to an untidy pile of your shoes, incongruous. He drops his bag, hangs his hat on hook by the door and then looks at you, brows arched and head tilted; runs his tongue over his teeth. You're close enough to touch, and he does, hooking one finger through a belt loop at your hip. He yanks you toward him, not gently, and ducks his head to nip the corner of your jaw. He says, "Listen, just so we're clear, friend, you're gonna suck my dick."

You cough a nervous laugh. "Um."

"I can come on your face or whatever if you want, like choose your own adventure." He's biting you harder, now, in a trail down one side of your neck. "But I'm gonna fuck your mouth until I do." 

You actually shudder at that, let out a sharp huff of breath as he shoves his hands up the front of your shirt, as he tongues a wet line along your clavicle. Unsure of the boundaries of this thing you're doing, you reach for his waist, fingertips then palms, sliding over yellow cotton to the bare skin of his back. He's told you what he expects you to give, but what are you allowed to take? You don't even know his name.

Your hands dip past the base of his spine. His ass perfectly fills your palms; dimples under your fingers when you squeeze, gently at first and then harder, greedier, when he murmurs an "Atta boy" close to your ear. 

He grabs eager handfuls of the softness at your waist and jerks your hips together. The shock of his erection against your groin is enough to choke a moan out of you. "Much as I love the idea of you sucking me off in the foyer," he says, "I'm not gonna stand here while you work."

"I have a bed-"

"How novel," he drawls, and takes a step back. His expression is as impassive as it was in the diner, but there's a visible swell under the front of his dress; a flush to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

You lead him to your room, and when you hesitate just inside the doorway he brushes past you, hikes up his skirt as and pulls down the boxers he's wearing underneath, his movements unconcerned and unselfconscious, as if you aren't standing right there, as if the two of you didn't meet less than an hour ago. When he kicks off his underwear and it lands on top of the book that you've been reading.

He flops down onto your duvet and sits with his legs splayed out to either side, his dress tented over his dick so far you can almost see under the hem. He's still wearing his boots. He leans back on his hands, and bites his bottom lip in a way that's somehow sarcastic, and he says, "This isn't a free show, babe."

You left your shoes in the hall but you're otherwise completely dressed, a fact you're intensely aware of as you kneel on the bed between his legs. Your own arousal has gotten to the point where your pants feel too confining, too much of a barrier dividing you and him, but when you reach for your belt buckle his forehead creases with a hint of an impatient frown.

Fine. That's fine. You've put up with worse for dudes a helluva lot less hot than this.

You reach for his knees, first, sharp and dusted with fine dark hairs.  And as you run your hands up his sun-freckled thighs, you push up the hem of his skirt. The fabric catches on his dick, pulling it back until it springs free with a satisfying bounce. Then his dress is bunched up around his waist, and your hands are on his bare hips, and his dick is right there in front of your face, narrow and dark and curved up invitingly. 

You feel a hand push into your hair, a reminder that you're here on assignment. You lick your lips and ask, "How do you like it?"

He chuckles. "Fast an' handsy."

"Yessir," you say, in a tone a thousand times more casual than you feel. You wrap your fingers around him, and pull back his foreskin, curl thumb and forefinger around the base of his dick and take the head in your mouth. 

He smells and tastes like a man who's been traveling, all sweat and salt, and you absolutely love it. You tuck your lips around your teeth, press your tongue up against the underside of his dick and slide your mouth down the length of him, until your nose is pressed to his pubic bone and his dick is in your throat. And as you pull back again, leaving him slick and glistening, your reach up with your other hand to  stroke the loose skin of his balls.

He lays back onto the bed as you settle into a eager rhythm. "Tighter," he murmurs, and his fist clenches in your hair as you adjust your grip, as you close your jaw and push with your tongue. The taste of him bitters, precum mixing with the spit on your hands and your lips and the shaft of his dick, hard and hot and pulsing with his heartbeat.

"You gonna finger me or what," he says, a low purring rumble. You pull off to sit back on your heels, and you get your first good look at him since the cocksucking stage of your evening began. His eyes are dark and hooded as they watch you slick your fingers with your tongue.

This time, you hold his dick in your off-hand as you take it back into your mouth. The other dips down under his balls, fingertips pausing to push against the base of his cock before they slide down further. You're rewarded with a soft groan as you press one finger against his ass. You knead the tight clench of him as you settle back into sucking his dick, your pace a little slower -- you'll need some time to loosen him up. 

When the first finger enters him, he squeezes your shoulders between his thighs. At the second, his back arches off of the bed. "That's it," he says, a little breathless. "Oh fuck, baby, that's just right."

You're deliciously twined up with him, now, his cock in your mouth and his body all around you, squirming under your hands, unable to keep still. He hooks one leg over your shoulder and the heel of a boot digs into your back, a sharp pain that only serves to remind you that this is a real thing that's happening.

"Close," he says, but you don't need the warning. You can feel the tell-tale spasms on your tongue, and you want him to stay just where he is. You take him as far down your throat as you can, your face mashed up against his stomach, your fingers curling inside of him, his thighs trembling with tension and your hair tight in his fist.

He comes with a gasp; with a viscous seawater flood as he twitches in your hands. 

You keep at your work until the aftershocks pass then slide your fingers out of him, give his softening cock a last playful swipe with your tongue, gently shift his leg from your shoulder so you can sit up and survey the state of him.

The state is...very good. Fuck. His rumpled dress shoved halfway up his stomach, his skin flushed and shining with sweat and your saliva, his hair splayed on your pillow. He's gorgeous and you want him, more badly now than ever.

You reach for your belt again; you can't wait any longer.

He bends one leg in languid slow-motion; presses a boot heel into your hand. "I'm tired," he says.

"That's fine," you say.

"Like just to be crystal clear, babe, you've fucked me all you're gonna."

You gently push his boot aside. "That's fine," you say again. You unfasten your belt, then go to work on the buttons of your fly. 

"So what, you're gonna just whack off while I lie here?"

You push your trousers down over your hips; dip your hand into your underwear. You want to be cocky, but something in the way he's watching you makes you ask him, "Can I?"

He folds his ams behind his head and regards you from under dark lashes. "Knock yourself out," he says at last, flippant in a way you don't buy at all.

You take yourself in your hand and you drink it all in: his rich brown skin against your duvet, his bare thighs and the tidy pile of cock and balls between them, the pink tip of his tongue between just-parted lips, his eyes flickering between your face and your groin. The weight of it all is too much to bear for long. 

You come with a moan, curling forward, one hand on the bed to keep yourself from collapsing into his lap. 

Fingers brush against your cheek, and you look up again to see he's smiling at you, barely a quirk at the corners of his mouth but unmistakable. 

"You're cute," he says quietly. He slides a thumb over your lips. "Maybe I'll let you stay after all."

You chuckle. "It's MY bed."

"I'm a guest," he says, "I get dibs."

"So was the plan to have me blow you and then kick me out to sleep on the couch?"

"Got it in one."

"Tell you what, innkeeper," you say as you slide off the bed and onto your feet. "How about I wash up, and then you can let me know if there's a vacancy."

"Acceptable," he says.

You pause at the door to your room. "I've got a pretty big bathtub," you say, "if you want to....you know."

"Scrub the spooge offa me?"

You wince, laughing again. "That's...wow, that's pretty much the last word I'd have used, but sure. Yes."

"Taako's good for now," he says, "hot water dries out my skin."

You're most of the way down the hall before you realize what he's given you.

By the time you come back from the bathroom he's gotten under your covers, one pillow under his head and the other all wrapped up in his limbs. He's not large but he's angled himself to take up most of the bed. 

"Hey," you say quietly from just inside the door. Then, "Taako."

There's no reply, only the soft rasp of his breath.

You strip out of your sex-stained clothes, drop them in a heap besides where he's discarded his dress and his boots, and carefully slide onto the sliver of mattress behind him. He stirs when you reach over to touch his bare shoulder, turns over toward you and half-opens his eyes. You can just make out his features in the moonlight from your window.

"You can stay," he murmurs, "but you gotta big spoon."

"That's fair," you say.

"Spoon," he says, as if to clarify, and rolls away from you again. 

You tuck yourself up into the shape of him from behind, one arm draped over his ribcage. His hair smells like dust and sweat.

You lie awake for some time after that, listening to him breathe. You wonder if you'll wake to an empty bed. You wonder if you'll see him again once you've closed your eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> The new Arcade Fire track [Electric Blue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UymXRxJPOQo) was my Big Mood while writing this.
> 
> Thanks to the Twitter friends who encouraged this bullshit, and to Clio for the very speedy beta.
> 
>  
> 
> [@Wildgoosery](https://twitter.com/wildgoosery)


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